Betina Krahn (13 page)

That was where Diamond and Morgan Kenwood found them, some minutes later, standing at the edge of the grass-lined stream, giving their horses a drink. Neither Diamond nor Morgan Kenwood mentioned Robbie’s narrow scrape, which could only mean that they hadn’t seen it. More than once, Robbie cast a pleading look at Bear to persuade him to keep silent about what had happened. But he needn’t have worried; Bear sensed that keeping the incident between the two of them would drive the lesson deeper into the boy’s conscience. For some reason, that seemed more important than the fleeting satisfaction he might have gotten from Diamond’s reaction to her charge’s reckless behavior.

Diamond noticed Robbie’s subdued behavior. “Robbie, are you all right?”

“Sure,” Robbie said with a scowl. Then he glanced at Bear and gave his head a serious scratching. “Just wanna get back on that horse and ride, is all.”

When they started off again, she didn’t wait for Morgan to dictate riding arrangements. As soon as she was in the
saddle, she insisted that Robbie ride beside her. Bear was left to contend with Morgan Kenwood’s visible irritation.

The men rode in silence, neither tempted to indulge in a conversation that could easily slide past civility. It was only when the stable came in sight that Kenwood turned to him.

“I think you should know, McQuaid, and I would save you the ignominy of discovering it in a more embarrassing manner … Miss Wingate and I have something of an
understanding
. She has given me to know that a certain ‘announcement’ will be made in a few weeks, on her birthday.”

“She has, has she?” Bear studied the aristocratic Kenwood, whose exaggerated posture on horseback made him look continually like he belonged in the middle of a park with pigeons perched on his head. In a pig’s eye, he thought. Women didn’t do their best to escape being in the same room with men they intended to marry. And Kenwood must be desperate indeed to perceive a threat to his matrimonial aspirations in
him
.

“I’ll be the first to congratulate you,” he said in deadly earnest, “when the announcement is made.”

By the time they returned to Gracemont’s stables that afternoon, Robbie was sagging badly. Diamond watched him squirming inside his new clothes and scratching himself as if they were an unbearable torment. She was wearing wool herself; it wasn’t
that
warm. She focused more closely on his reddened face and dispirited manner, wondering what was wrong with him. Then when he was halfway through his dismount, he got his foot tangled in the stirrup and fell the rest of the way to the ground. He didn’t rise.

“Robbie!” She rushed to him and pulled him upright,
cradling him. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?” He was limp in her arms. “Robbie?” She steadied his shoulders and felt his forehead. He was hot and sweaty and his eyes had a watery, faraway look that boded ill. “Robbie—look at me. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“S-so hot.” He raked a hand listlessly through his damp hair, standing it on end. Then he reached under his collar to scratch. “And I itch … all over …”

She looked up to find Morgan and McQuaid standing over them.

“Something’s wrong. Help me get him inside.”

Instantly, Morgan took charge, muscling McQuaid aside and gathering Robbie into his arms. He strode for the house and, once inside, insisted on personally carrying the boy to his room. Diamond trotted along beside him, stroking Robbie’s head and reassuring him that all would be well. At the bottom of the main stairs, Morgan turned to Barton McQuaid with a manner that could only be described as arrogant.

“I shall stay here with Diamond and the boy. Be a good fellow, McQuaid, and fetch Dr. McGowan. He has an office on Charles Street.”

Diamond was so worried that she seconded Morgan’s request with a pleading look. McQuaid searched her face for a moment, frowned, and nodded. As they hurried up the step, she looked back over her shoulder and saw him putting on his hat and striding for the front doors. An unreasoning sense of relief poured through her at the thought that he was again riding to the rescue and would soon return with Doc McGowan.

The next hour was almost unbearable for her. With Mrs. Cullen’s help, she put Robbie immediately to bed. In removing his clothes, they discovered a rash of red bumps on his neck and stomach and even in the edge of his hair. But, as Mrs. Cullen said, it was hard to tell quite what
they meant, because of a general redness caused by what appeared to have been a frenzy of scratching.

Diamond settled on the bed beside Robbie, holding his hands to keep him from scratching. At her slightest movement, his hands tightened on hers as if he were afraid she might abandon him. He seemed so small and frail in the midst of that big bed, and his fever-brightened eyes seemed alarmingly vulnerable.

“Why didn’t you say something, Robbie?” she asked, stroking his hair.

“I … didn’t wanna miss ridin’ a real horse.”

It was all he had talked about for days: learning to ride and getting a horse of his own. “There will be plenty of time for that after you’re well,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

Calling for a basin of cold water and cloths, she began to bathe his face and arms, trying to make him more comfortable. He rested fitfully, tormented at regular intervals by itching that caused him to squirm and whine.

Morgan alternately hovered and paced, doing his best to look distressed. Several times he paused by the bed to set a hand to Diamond’s shoulder or stroke her back, and each time she felt like smacking him. After a time, he leaned down to whisper that he was concerned that her caring for the boy personally might put her own “dear health” in jeopardy. She looked up at him, speechless, and he smiled with what she supposed passed for affectionate concern in his repertoire of responses.

“I would protect you at all costs … even from your own soft heart, my precious Diamond,” he added, giving her cheek a possessive stroke.

How dare he imply her judgment was faulty or that she was incapable of deciding for herself what was and was not prudent? They weren’t even engaged and he was trying to enforce his ideas of what was and was not good for her!

She had struggled her whole life to assert some control over her own destiny, to battle back the forces that overwhelmed her will and her choices … her overprotective father, her suffocating wealth, the ever-present expectations and demands of others. Now that she was finally on the brink of receiving full control of her fortune and setting things straight in her life, she was determined that no one was going to interfere. She certainly didn’t need anyone trying to protect her from the workings of her own heart!

By the time old Dr. McGowan arrived, puffing heavily from being rushed up the stairs, Diamond was beside herself. Robbie’s spots and itching seemed to be getting worse. The good doctor examined him thoroughly, issuing a goodly number of “um-hm’s” in the process. Diamond was so intent on Robbie that she scarcely realized that Morgan’s arm had found its way around her waist or that he was staring smugly over the top of her head at Barton McQuaid.

When the doctor turned and removed his spectacles, she held her breath.

“I do believe,” he said, “that what we have here is a plain old, ordinary case of the chicken pox.”

“Chicken pox?” She felt a surge of relief. “Not smallpox or diphtheria?”

“Heavens, no.” The doctor smiled. “Just garden-variety chicken pox. Most children get ’em. They recover after a few days with no more than a few scars … which can be avoided, too, if you can keep him from scratching. A little calamine or a paste of soda and water on the bumps will help the itch. He’ll be up and around in … oh, a few days.” He chuckled, removing his spectacles. “Just be glad he’s getting them out of the way while he’s young.”

“Getting them out of the way?” Morgan asked, coming alert. “Why?”

“Because kids get right through ’em,” Doc McGowan said. “Whereas if you get ’em as an adult, it’s another story. They can be downright serious.”

Morgan peeled his arm from Diamond and staggered back a step.

“It’s all right, Morgan,” she said, a bit annoyed by his reaction. “You can’t get them more than once.” The doctor’s agreement didn’t seem to reassure him. “And I’ve already had them.”

“Well,
I
haven’t,” Morgan said, stiffening. “I’ve never had chicken pox or mumps or—” His hands flew to his neck and chest, feeling for signs of disease.

“I, on the other hand,” McQuaid said from the doorway, where he was leaning one shoulder against the frame, “had them in spades.” He smiled at Morgan without the slightest trace of sympathy. “Spots and bumps everywhere.” He pushed off with his shoulder and strolled forward. “In my hair, in my ears, inside my mouth. I knew a fellow in Carson City—thirty years old—who got them all over the soles of his feet and up his legs and all over his—Well, let’s just say he couldn’t perform the ‘necessary function’ without a good bit of pain. Nearly drove him crazy. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t eat …”

“In your ears? Your
mouth
?” Morgan’s eyes widened. “You get them all over your—” His gaze flew to the front of his trousers and his hands twitched with a suppressed urge.

“Big, ugly sores. Like boils. They head out and break open. Ooze and itch and burn like the very devil.” McQuaid shook his head. “And then after they’ve crusted over and dried up, some fellows come down with the shingles. Their skin turns scaly and red and cracks open and sloughs off …”

A groan escaped Morgan. He looked at Diamond with blanched dignity and backed hastily toward the door. “I
must go home. I’ve just remembered … I promised Mother I would take her into the city.” He rushed from the room.

Doc McGowan exited next, shaking his head over Morgan’s reaction and telling Diamond to call him if she needed him. Mrs. Cullen showed the doctor out and, at Diamond’s request, sent word of Robbie’s condition to Hardwell and Hannah, who were at the Masseys’ for their regular canasta game. When the room had cleared she turned to Barton McQuaid with an accusing look.

“You laid it on a bit thick, didn’t you?” she said, crossing her arms trying to hide the vindictive pleasure she had felt watching Morgan deflate.

“Just told the truth, Miss Wingate.” He was entirely too pleased with himself.

“Diamond?” Robbie’s raspy voice came from the bed, and she hurried to his side. “Is he right? Am I gonna get boils so bad I can’t pee?”

“No, you are not.” She shot a see-what-you’ve-done look at McQuaid. “You heard what Dr. McGowan said. Boys your age always have it easier.”

“But I itch so much.” His eyes filled with tears of misery.

She settled on the edge of the bed and stroked his face. “I know you’re uncomfortable, Robbie, but you’ll get through it. I did, when I was a little girl.”

“And I did.” McQuaid’s voice came from the other side of the bed. She looked up and found him standing with his hands on his waist, staring down at the boy. He had a reckless, not-to-be-trifled-with glint in his eyes.

“Besides, you’re too ornery to die. You’ve got trouble written all over you, Wingate. Me, too.” McQuaid jerked a thumb toward his shoulder. “That’s how I know. And guys like us … we don’t die of kid stuff like chicken pox. We die with our boots on … in a hail of bullets … 
comin’ out of a pair of swingin’ saloon doors … down by the OK Corral.”

“McQuaid …” She glared at him and he laughed and settled on the side of the bed, his brows upended in the wickedest look imaginable.

“Your lady cousin, here … she would be in big trouble if she got ’em now. Sweet young things like her … they usually just curl up and die.” He flicked her a look that sent a flush of heat all through her. “A good thing she had ’em earlier, while she was still ornery enough to survive.”

“McQuaid!” She balled her fists in her lap and sat straighter, trying to look more formidable. “That is quite en—”

“Now, the trick to survivin’ this chicken pox thing is to choose where to scratch and where not to. Scratching is what causes the scars … so you want to pick places to scratch that you don’t mind lookin’ a bit rough … like your legs and sides and belly. You’ll want to avoid scratching your face and arms and chest—because you’ll want to grow up to be a handsome dog. Like me.” He winked on the side turned away from Diamond and Robbie broke into a grin. “Women, for some reason or other, don’t seem to take to a scarred-up face. And while you probably don’t have much use for females now, believe me, they’ll come in handy in the future.”

“Mr. McQuaid, really!” she scowled, though with alarmingly less heat. Robbie was entranced.

“
Really
, Miss Wingate,” he said, looking directly at her. “I’m just doing my Christian duty by Master Robert here … comforting him and such.” He gave Robbie an outrageously earnest look. “How am I doing? You feeling comforted?”

Robbie nodded, sensing that he and McQuaid were in on something together … something that was all the
more fun because Diamond was excluded and didn’t seem to like it a bit.

“Drink your water,” McQuaid said, motioning to the glass of water on the nightstand by the bed. “All this talking can make a man thirsty. And speakin’ of thirsty … you know, there’s nothing like a good cold glass of water. Some men swear by beer or whiskey. But me? I’m a water man. Good clear, cold water right out of a mountain stream. Ever been in the mountains, Robert?” When the boy said no, he wagged his head. “I figured not. You don’t look like the got-snowed-in-in-a-mountain-pass-and-had-to-eat-my-shoe-leather-to-survive type. Well, you haven’t been in real mountains until you’ve been in the Rockies. And the streams up in the Rockies are as clear as crystal and cold and sweet.…”

Diamond watched Barton McQuaid charming her cousin and knew on some level that he was sweetening her vinegar, as well. Curse his handsome hide. Who would have guessed that he possessed such a gift of gab? Or that he would be willing to use it to such humane ends … entertaining and distracting her rambunctious young cousin so thoroughly that he hadn’t remembered to scratch in more than five minutes.

The problem was: Robbie wasn’t the only one being distracted.

She should be outraged by the crass way McQuaid was entertaining her impressionable cousin. But for the life of her she could not bring herself to put an end to it. It pained her to admit it, even to herself … but she rather liked playing the horrified lady guardian. It gave her a perfect excuse to watch McQuaid’s expressive face and frame work their magic. And, Lord—he did have some sort of magic. It made her fingertips tingle when he spoke. It made her pulse beat faster when he came into view. It made her stare at him when no one else was looking and
want to stare at him when everybody in the world was looking.